Clive Barker - The Great and Secret Show

"But do you know where all these people come from?" Jo-Beth said.

Mel shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Come through, will you? I need a drink if you don't. Lois has always denied herself these little pleasures. I always said: God isn't looking. And if He is, He doesn't care."

They pressed their way through the guests to the hallway. Numbers of people had gathered there to escape the crush in the lounge, among them several church members: Maeline Mallett; Al Grigsby; Ruby Sheppherd. They smiled at Jo-Beth, no sign on their faces that they found this gathering untoward. Had they perhaps brought Visitors of their own?

"Did you go down to the Mall last night?" Jo-Beth asked Mel as she watched him pour her orange juice.

"I did indeed," he said.

"And Maeline? And Lois? And the Kritzlers?"

"I think so. I forget who was there exactly, but yes, I'm sure most of them...are you sure you wouldn't like something in the juice?"

"Maybe I will," she said vaguely, her mind putting the~ pieces of this mystery together.

"Good for you," said Mel. "The Lord isn't looking, and even if He is..."

"...He doesn't care."

She took the drink.

"That's right. He doesn't care."

She sipped it; then gulped.

"What's in it?" she said.

"Vodka."

"Is the world going mad, Mr. Knapp?"

"I think it is," came the reply. "What's more, I like it that way."

Howie woke at a little after ten, not because he was sufficiently rested but because he'd rolled over in sleep and trapped his wounded hand under his body. Pain soon slapped him conscious. He sat up and studied his throbbing knuckles in the moonlight. The cuts had opened again. He dressed and went to the bathroom to wash them of blood, then went in search of a bandage. Jo-Beth's mother provided one, along with the expertise to bind his hand properly, plus the information that Jo-Beth had gone to Lois Knapp's house.

"She's late now," Momma said.

"It's not ten-thirty yet."

"Even so."

"You want me to go look for her?"

"Would you? You can take Tommy-Ray's car."

"Is it far?"

"No."

"Then I think I'll walk."

The warmth of the night and his being out in it without hounds on his heels put him in mind of his first night here in the Grove: seeing Jo-Beth in Butrick's Steak House; speaking with her; falling, in a matter of seconds, in love. The calamities that had come upon the Grove since were a direct result of that meeting. But significant as his feelings for Jo-Beth were, he couldn't quite bring himself to believe they'd brought such vast consequence. Was it possible that beyond the enmity between the Jaff and Fletcher—beyond Quiddity and the struggle for its possession—lay an even vaster plot? He'd always vexed himself with such imponderables; like trying to imagine infinity, or what it would feel like to touch the sun. The pleasure lay not in a solution, but in the stretch it took to tackle the question. The difference, in this case, lay with his place in the problem. Suns and infinities vexed far greater minds than his. But what he felt for Jo-Beth vexed only him, and if—as some buried instinct in him (Fletcher's echo, perhaps?) suggested—the fact of their meeting was a tiny but vital part of some massive tale, then he could not leave the thinking to those greater minds. The responsibility, at least in part, devolved upon him; upon them both. How much he wished it didn't. How much he longed to have time to court Jo-Beth like any small-town suitor. To lay plans for the future without the weight of an inexplicable past pressing upon them. But that couldn't be, any more than a written thing could be unwritten, or a wished-for thing unwished.

If he'd wanted any more concrete proof of that, none could have been had but the scene that awaited him beyond the door of Lois Knapp's house.

"There's someone here to see you, Jo-Beth."

She turned and met the same expression that must have been on her face when, two hours and more before, she'd stepped into the lounge.

"Howie," she said.

"What's going on here?"

"A party."

"Yeah, I can see that. But all these actors. Where'd they come from? They can't all live in the Grove."

"They're not actors," she said. "They're people from the TV. And a few movies too. Not many, but—"

"Wait, wait."

He moved closer to her. "Are these Lois's friends?" he said.

"They sure are," she said.

"This town just keeps on going, doesn't it? Just when you think you've got it fixed in your head—"

"But they're not actors, Howie."

"You just said they were."

"No. I said they were people from TV. See the Patterson family, over there? They even have that dog with them."

"Morgan," Howie said. "My mother used to watch that show."

The dog, a lovable mongrel in a long tradition of lovable mongrels, heard his name called and scooted over, followed by Benny, the youngest of the Patterson children.

"Hi," the kid said. "I'm Benny."

"I'm Howie. This is—"

"Jo-Beth. Yeah, we met. You want to come outside and play ball with me, Howie? I'm bored."

"It's dark out there."

"No it isn't," Benny said. He directed Howie's gaze towards the patio doors. They were open. The night beyond was, as Benny had said, far from dark. It was as if the odd radiance that permeated the house, about which he'd had no time to speak with Jo-Beth, had seeped out into the yard.

"See?" Benny said.

"I see."

"So come on, huh?"

"In a minute."

"Promise?"

"I promise. By the way, what's your real name?"

The kid looked puzzled. "Benny," he said. "Always was." He and the mutt headed off for the bright night.

Before Howie could put the countless questions in his head into askable order he felt a friendly pat on the back and a rotund voice enquired:

"Something to drink?"

Howie raised his bandaged hand in apology for the absence of a handshake.

"Good to have you here anyhow. Jo-Beth was telling me about you. I'm Mel, by the way. Lois's husband. You met Lois already, I gather."

"That's right."

"I don't know where she got to. I think one of those cowboys is having his way with her." He raised his glass. "To which I say, better him than me." He faked a look of shame. "What am I saying? I should have the bastard out in the street. Gun him down, eh?" He grinned. "That's the New West for you, right? Can't be fucking bothered. You want another vodka, Jo-Beth? You're going to have something, Howie?"

"Why not?"

"Funny, isn't it?" Mel said. "It's only when these damn dreams come in you realize who you are. Me...I'm a coward. And I don't love her." He turned from them. "Never did love her," he said as he reeled away. "Bitch. Fucking bitch."

Howie watched him enveloped by the crowd, then looked back at Jo-Beth. Very slowly he said:

"I don't have the slightest clue what's happening. Do you?"

"Yes."

"Tell me. Words of one syllable."

"This is because of last night. What your father did."

"The fire?"

"Or what came from it. All these people..." She smiled, surveying them, "...Lois, Mel, Ruby over there...all of them were at the Mall last night. Whatever came from your father—"

"Keep your voice down, will you? They're staring at us."

"I'm not talking loud, Howie," she said. "Don't be so paranoid."

"I tell you they're staring."

He could feel the intensity of their gazes: faces he'd only ever seen in glossy magazines, or on the television screen, staring at him with strange, almost troubled, looks.

"So let them stare," she said. "They don't mean any harm."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been here all evening. It's just like a normal party—"

"You're slurring your words."

"So why shouldn't I have a little fun once in a while?"